The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  As they returned through the corridor, Mirsath pointed out that the work had to be finished by tonight, when the storm Lady Hollis had predicted would provide cover for Saumer’s army.

  Johlarian shook his head. “Not tonight. I had a look for myself earlier. Clouds are just sitting in the bay, no wind behind them. Give it a day or two, my lord.”

  “Well, then, I’ll bring some people down here and do it right. Get torches ready in the holders, try to plug some of the leaks.” He frowned up at the ceiling that had just dripped more clammy water down his neck. “And clean up the slime in here. You’re right, Karanaya, the smell is foul!”

  Over her shoulder she gave him a look of tolerance designed to insult. “After all these years of flushing the middens into the moat, did you expect it to reek of roses?”

  Johlarian looked up and got a water drop on the forehead. Thought of the noxious mess overhead made him slightly queasy as he wiped it before it got into his eye, and he increased his pace.

  The climb was endless and they were panting hard by the time Johlarian’s fingerflame showed them a solid ceiling above. When the tenth step did its work and the three of them climbed out of the floor, a passing maidservant dropped her armful of bedsheets and promptly fainted.

  Karanaya looked down at her in disdain. “Silly woman.”

  “Yes,” Johlarian murmured. “You’d think she’d never seen a rabbit hole in the middle of a castle before.”

  • • •

  “Chayla?” Sioned asked in response to Hollis’ question. “I don’t know—in the infirmary, probably, making her rounds.”

  “That was the first place I looked.”

  Sioned paused to smile at her Namesake Siona and smooth back the child’s fever-wet hair. “I know the medicine tastes nasty, darling, but it really will make you feel better. Be sure to drink it all down next time. That’s my girl.” Rising, she picked her way among the beds and pallets laid out on the floor of what had been Maara’s playroom. Hollis followed her and at the door whispered, “She went out harvesting yesterday.”

  “Good Goddess, she didn’t go alone!”

  “She’s not that foolish. Evidently she sneaked out and met up with a returning patrol, and persuaded a few of them to go with her. But she’s not back yet, Sioned. I’m worried.”

  “I’m sure she’s all right. Maybe it was too dark to ride back once she’d finished, or she decided to take two days about it. Have you tried sunlight?”

  Hollis looked abashed. “I—no. I hadn’t thought of it.”

  Sioned’s lips quirked. “I can’t tell you how many times I had to search for Pol by any light I could scratch together. He thought it highly unfair of his mother to be a Sunrunner.” Her gaze swept back into the sickroom. “Twenty-one in here, thirty more down the hall. What a time for this to happen.”

  “It’s only silk-eye. Everyone gets it and recovers.”

  “With the right medicines, yes. Chayla knows that. Either there wasn’t enough at the first place she tried, or she’s stripping bare what she found.” She sighed wearily. “And we’re going to need it. We’re out of almost everything. Go ask Ruala where the best places are for picking. You’ll find her with Maara. She came down with it yesterday.”

  “It’s easier being a mother when they’re little, isn’t it?” Hollis murmured. “All you have to do is bandage their scrapes and hug them, and their world is all right again.”

  “Yes. And they trust that you know everything, and take every word you say as the absolute truth.” She rinsed her hands in the basin set on a table by the door. “These days I know nothing of any real value to Pol, there are few truths left—none that he’ll accept, anyway—and his hurts are beyond my helping. You’re lucky. Chayla and Rohannon are still young.”

  “But not children, as you say.” Hollis sighed softly. “My hatchlings are only fifteen. Yet one of them is a battle surgeon and the other acts as Court Sunrunner for a prince going to war. Goddess help me, Sioned, how do I protect them?”

  “You can’t,” she replied bluntly, and dried her hands. “But you can still comfort them when they need you.”

  “Pol hasn’t outgrown that. He still needs you.”

  Sioned turned a wry smile on her. “Hollis, he needs the Sunrunner High Princess. Not his mother. Use my chambers. You’ll have some privacy and the light’s good this time of day. When you find Chayla, send someone out to bring her back and then give her a good scold. She knows better than to worry us this way.”

  • • •

  Andry kept watch over Miyon the whole of the morning, astounded when the Cunaxan prince turned east toward Skybowl.

  “Where does he think he’s going? Does he think he’ll be welcomed with wine and singing?”

  Evarin shrugged, standing in his stirrups for a moment to stretch his legs. “He could be joining the Vellant’im.”

  “He’s not that stupid. Pol would execute him for it when this is over.”

  “Assuming Pol wins.”

  Andry frowned. “That’s what I’m going to Feruche to make sure of.”

  “I know, my Lord. Sorry. Maybe he’s just avoiding the rest of the mountains.”

  “Hmm. That’s possible. He might be thinking to sneak past Skybowl and take the easier way north, across the sand.”

  “I don’t suppose we could do the same?”

  Andry laughed at his wistful tone. “Saddle sore?”

  “Everything sore! Stop acting so superior, just because you grew up on a horse. I saw you limping on your bad leg at sunup. You’re as tired as I am.”

  “I’m seventeen winters your senior, my lad. I’m entitled to be tired. And it’s not a ‘bad’ leg, Evarin, don’t fuss.” He let his horse chew at the sparse grass poking bravely out of a snowbank. “I wish I knew where Miyon’s going. But at least he’s not riding the same road as the princesses.”

  “Will we catch up with them soon? I could use a hot meal and a good night’s sleep. Hells, I’d settle for a lukewarm meal and an afternoon nap. I may never get my knees within speaking distance of each other again.”

  “Tomorrow morning.” He tugged the stallion’s head up. “When we get to Feruche, I’ll ask Lady Ruala to give you a great big bathtub all to yourself for three days.”

  Evarin rubbed at his backside. “Make it four.”

  • • •

  Maarken looked down at the plate Kierun had placed on his knees. “What’s this?”

  “Dinner, my lord.”

  “I can see that.”

  Pol sat on the other side of the fire, trying not to watch—or to hold his breath. He spooned up a portion of stew and put it in his mouth. Making a face for Maarken’s benefit, he swallowed and said, “It is pretty awful, but at least it’s hot and there’s plenty of—”

  “I don’t give a damn what it tastes like!” his cousin snarled. “I want to know why the meat is chopped fine enough for a toothing infant!”

  Pol gave him what he hoped was an uncomprehending stare.

  “I’m perfectly capable of cutting a piece of meat!”

  Kierun flinched. Never in the boy’s experience of him had Maarken raised his voice in anger. He cast a look of appeal at Pol, wide gray eyes asking what he’d done wrong. Pol nodded reassuringly, then gestured him away. Kierun bowed and fled.

  “If you’re quite finished terrifying that poor child—who was only doing a squire’s duty by bringing you something to eat—then perhaps you’ll be so good as to look at my plate.” He held it out and let his voice rise as he continued, “See? What a surprise, it’s just like yours. They shredded the meat because that’s what the Goddess-damned recipe calls for, not because of your hand! Now shut up and eat!”

  Maarken glowered at him.

  Pol loosed another arrow. “If you’re determined to feel sorry for yourself, go do it somewhere else. You’re boring me and spoiling my dinner.”

  The desired response was slow in coming, but he knew his kinsman well. Maarken swallowed a few bites
of stew, then looked at him with rueful accusation in his eyes. “You’re kicking me. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

  Pol grinned. “Have some bread.” He tossed a hunk of it over the flames. Maarken caught it automatically in his right hand. Pol arched a brow at him and received a snort in return.

  “I’ll get used to it eventually, I suppose,” Maarken said after a time. “I just hate the thought of anyone treating me differently.”

  “Well, they will,” Pol said frankly. “For a while, anyway. Just don’t go trying stupid things to prove them wrong.”

  Maarken lifted his left arm in its sling, sighing as he stared at the thick bandage. “You’d only land your verbal boot in my ass again. And you’d have every right—not just as my cousin and my friend and my prince. You saved my life, Pol.”

  He shook his head, both to deny the words and to reject the memory of what he’d done.

  “I might have bled to death,” Maarken insisted.

  “Damn it, I don’t want to talk about it!” he burst out, instantly ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

  “I know,” Maarken said softly. “After what happened at the Pillar. But this makes up for it, you see.”

  Pol shrugged. He didn’t regret what he’d done there. But he had the feeling the Goddess was mocking him.

  Changing the subject, he asked, “Do you think we can lure the rest of them up to Skybowl? It’s a good battlefield. They might be eager to cancel the shame of losing with another fight in the same place.”

  “Hmm.” Maarken spooned, chewed, swallowed, and balanced his plate on his knee while he reached to the ground for his wine cup. “I think you’re right, their minds would work that way. The High Warlord seems fairly comfortable camped outside Stronghold, though. What would bring him to us?”

  “Me. That’s what he wants, Maarken. The Dragon Prince.”

  “You’re not going to go back down there and present yourself to him. As your Battle Commander, I forbid it.”

  “Didn’t you see how they came after me? It was incredible—as if they only had one mind among them, and they were drawn toward me and Azhdeen with a single thought. And the looks they gave me—” He shrugged again to hide a shudder. “I’m the one they want.”

  “Well, they can’t have you,” Maarken snapped. “We’ll get them to Skybowl without your playing the sacrificial virgin princess like in the legends, thank you very much. It may be a little harder and take some more thought, but we’ll find a way to do it.”

  Pol decided to let the matter slide for now. “Oh, all right. Once Saumer cleans out Lowland and Tilal gets here from High Kirat, our forces will be just about even. But you realize that we know ways into Skybowl that they don’t. We can move our whole army into the keep without their being any the wiser.” He stared into the firelight between them. “Father was right. The Desert will do a lot of our work for us. But not all. That’s something I have to talk with you about. We have to use everything we have—the Desert, the gold, the dragons, and our gifts. What we did at Stronghold worked as far as it went. But there’s got to be a way to—”

  “We could ask my brother.”

  Pol lost his appetite.

  “I dreamed a lot of strange things, with that sleeping draught Feylin gave me,” Maarken went on in a quiet voice. “Mostly about the family. I remember seeing Jahni so clearly it was as if he was still alive . . . and then when Sorin and Andry were little, before I left for Graypearl . . . and you were there, too, dragging that stuffed toy in the sand behind you. . . .” He smiled slightly, then met Pol’s gaze. “But when I was waking up, I remembered something that that Mireva woman said. You and Andry were challenging her, the night she kept Ruala inside Stronghold. She said that the two of you would work together when dragons flew the ocean instead of the sky.”

  Pol made a sound low in his throat.

  “There are dragons on the sea, Pol.”

  Now he knew the Goddess was mocking him. He opened his mouth to say as much when his cousin’s head jerked up and the spoon dropped from lax fingers.

  Pol hesitated a moment, then turned his gaze to the pale, misted light of the moons. It was an unthinkable breach of manners, but these were unthinkable times and the look on Maarken’s face scared him more than the faces of the advancing enemy. Hollis was a skilled Sunrunner, though; she had woven light so tightly around Maarken that Pol caught only glimpses of her colors, snatches of their words.

  —missing? What do you mean—

  —your hand—my darling, why didn’t you tell—

  —never mind, it’s not important—

  —yesterday to Ivalia—searched all day—back at dusk—three bodies—only her knife—taken her our daughter our little girl—

  —Goddess damn them I’ll kill them kill every one of—

  Pol broke away with a shiver and got to his feet. Hurrying to where Kierun sat with Riyan and Kazander beside another small fire, he said, “Saddle my horse and Maarken’s at once. We’re leaving for Feruche. The Vellant’im have taken Chayla.”

  Kazander turned as white as the moons. Pol saw it and nodded at him.

  “You come with us. Riyan, follow in the morning with the army.”

  Riyan was nearly as pale as the Isulki lord. “How did it happen? Where was she?”

  “Someplace called Ivalia. One of their scouting patrols must have found her. I thought we’d cleaned them all out, but evidently not. Kierun, get busy.”

  “Yes, my lord!”

  Riyan gnawed his cheek. “Ivalia Meadow is where Ruala usually gets her medicinal herbs. Pol, there are a hundred places in those hills to hide. And you can bet they’ll keep well out of sight while there’s any light to be had.”

  Kazander’s voice was lethally soft. “A hundred or a million, it makes no difference. They have stolen her.” Rising, he strode after Kierun toward where the horses were picketed.

  “I’ll send people out tonight to block their passage south,” Riyan said.

  “For all the good it’ll do. They’ll expect that.”

  “We’ll do it just the same. We’ll find them before they can take her back to their High Warlord. But what could they possibly want with Chayla?”

  Pol began to pace, caught himself at it, and stopped. “If it’s ransom, the price will be me.”

  “None of us will let you pay it,” Riyan warned. “Maarken least of all. You know him, Pol.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll contend with that if it happens. I’d like to know how they knew to take Chayla and not the others. It seems they killed the three people who were with her. Either it was a lucky guess or they really do know who she is.”

  “Which implies a more intimate knowledge of us than I like to consider. Still, after all this time, and accepting that they’ve been watching us for years to prepare for this war—”

  “Damn them!” Pol burst out. “Chayla’s just a child!”

  “Daughter of the Battle Commander, cousin of the High Prince, niece of the Lord of Goddess Keep—must I go on? She’s worth any dozen other people combined.”

  “Except me.”

  They looked around as Maarken strode toward them, his face terrible by firelight.

  “They have taken my daughter,” he rasped.

  “I know,” Pol said. “I listened to part of it. Kierun’s saddling our horses now. Riyan will stay behind to lead the army north tomorrow. But tonight we ride for Feruche.”

  Maarken blinked once, then nodded. “Good. Send out patrols in groups of twenty—”

  “We’ve thought of that,” Riyan interrupted. “I’ll go see to it now.” He clasped Maarken’s shoulder briefly, and left them.

  The cousins watched each other for a time. Pol was the first to glance away, unable to bear the agony in Maarken’s eyes.

  “Hollis saw,” Maarken said suddenly.

  “She had to, sooner or later.”

  “I will never hold her face between my hands again. Never walk between my children, holdi
ng their hands in my own—” He choked slightly. “But I have one hand left to hold a sword, and, by the Goddess, I will kill them all for what they’ve done.”

  Pol looked into the gray eyes, in which fire of many kinds leapt and raged. “Perhaps you won’t need a sword at all,” he murmured. “There are many ways of killing. Andry can teach both of us how.”

  • • •

  At about the same time that Pol, Maarken, and Kazander were flinging themselves into their saddles, Miyon of Cunaxa was using his as a backrest against a scraggly pine tree.

  He was drinking good wine from a bottle taken from Dragon’s Rest, taking his ease in the evening moonlight. His men, not similarly equipped, stood guard around him at the respectful distance required by his rank. Everyone was exhausted, but no one would sleep until the Vellant’im had arrived. That they would indeed come up the trail tonight was something Miyon never doubted. Barbarians they might be, but he had offered them a prize beyond imagining and they weren’t stupid.

  At last he heard them, barely. Hoofbeats and the muted jingle of a bridle brought his four guards into a protective circle. He stayed where he was, lounging with a blanket across his knees. It was damnably cold. He took another long swig of wine.

  “Cunaxa Prince?”

  Miyon exhaled in relief. They had even been smart enough to send someone who spoke something other than that guttural babble.

  One of his guards answered. “Stop and make yourselves known!”

  Evidently this was too complex a statement. Swords hissed from scabbards and all at once a score—two score, Miyon counted with a startled curse under his breath—of bearded warriors rode out of the night. His own guards stiffened and closed ranks.

  Miyon drew a breath, gratified that it didn’t shake in his throat, and whispered an order. The two men directly in front of him parted enough to let him see the Vellant’im. More importantly, they saw him—reclining against his saddle and the tree with a bottle of fine wine in his hand, as if he were the one with a small army behind him.

  “You’re late,” he remarked. “What took you so long?”

  A tall, black-haired man, indistinguishable from the others except for the number of gold trinkets in his beard, stepped forward.